The springbok seemed to pay not the slightest heed to their approach, and Jack was beginning to feel excited with the chase, and to calculate how far they should be able to get before having to dismount, when all at once there was a sudden check; he went flying over his horse’s head, his double barrel escaped from his hand, and he found himself lying on the hard sandy earth, confused and puzzled, with Chicory trying to pull him up; and Stockings standing close by, snorting and shivering with fear.
Jack got up, and limped to where his rifle lay, feeling stupid, and wondering how it was that he had been thrown; and he had but regained his piece, and was ruefully examining it, when his father and Dick came galloping up.
“Much hurt, my boy?” cried Mr Rogers, eagerly.
“Only my leg and arm a little,” said Jack, rubbing first one and then the other; “but I did think I could ride better than that, father.”
“Ride, my boy? Why, no one could have helped that. Don’t you know how it was?”
“I know Stockings threw me,” replied Jack.
“Threw you? Nonsense, boy! He set his fore feet in an ant-bear hole, and turned a complete somersault. We were afraid that he had rolled upon you.”
“Then a good rider couldn’t have helped it, father?”
“Helped it? No, my boy.”
“Oh, I feel better now,” said Jack, laughing; and, limping up to his horse, he patted its neck and remounted, though not without difficulty. “Where’s the bok, Chicory?”